A New Life (Moving On, Part 2)
by GildaMulberry
Summary: Richard is back in the UK - Life there is decidedly different from life on Saint Marie... (Connected / complementary to "Going Home" which was originally posted under the name of Gilda in Archives of our Own and then stolen and posted under a different name on here. This is part 2 in a series.)
1. An Ordinary Morning

An ordinary morning

It was just another ordinary Tuesday morning in London… Richard Poole stood in his kitchen, still in his night attire (a comfy striped pyjama that he had bought at 'Marks & Sparks', as his mother liked to call the store), brewing himself a nice pot of tea. He frowned and looked at the kitchen clock – it was 6 a.m. Only one more hour, and the plane would arrive in Heathrow… He hoped that everything would go according to his plans. He had tried to arrange everything yesterday, and as far as he could see, there were no pitfalls to fear – but of course, you never knew. He had learnt the hard way that you couldn't plan everything, and your life could change in an instant.

He looked out of the window. By now, he had adjusted to the view… He hadn't been living here for very long yet… not even a year. His house in Croydon had been sold some time ago – and he hadn't looked back. He had never wanted to return there, anyway… the Met had offered him a position in North London, and he had happily accepted it. Anything was better than Croydon – living there hadn't been so bad, but working there – no, he was glad that this was over.

For a short while he had stayed in a guesthouse that the Met maintained in the area – it was mostly for foreign visitors and guests, but also for officers who took courses in the capital and couldn't find affordable accommodation. The guesthouse was very popular, despite its obvious lack of usual amenities that hotels might offer – it was very basic, but functional… and not too pricey. Richard wasn't too picky any more – after two years in a tin-roofed beach shack, he didn't care whether or not a room had elegant furniture or exquisite curtains. He appreciated amenities, of course, and his current house certainly wasn't a run-down hovel – it actually had been in pretty good shape when he had bought it, and he had good taste when it came to colours and furniture – but he didn't expect perfection of a temporary dwelling, so the guesthouse had been okay for him...

He had stayed there for a few weeks until the purchase of this house had been settled, necessary renovations had been done, and he could move in. In the meantime – however far from perfect - it had really become his home – more than the house in Croydon ever had been… although he had lived there for several years. Maybe it had to do with the fact that this house stood for a fresh start. A clean slate, so to speak… And he obviously knew better now what he wanted in his life.

The weather outside didn't indicate that it was actually summer – it was grey and dismal, and the wet ground was proof for another drizzle having come down a few minutes ago. Well, hopefully, it would get better during the day!

What a contrast to Saint Marie… He put some bread in the toaster, and while he waited for his tea to be ready, his mind wandered back to his time on the tropical island in the Caribbean… he had spent over two years there, and it had been the hottest, most humid, most uncomfortable and most inconvenient place he had ever had the misfortune to live at… And yet, being there had also taught him quite a few important life lessons and brought him some wonderful experiences… It had taken him so long to appreciate life on the island with all its amazing aspects, and when he had finally been more willing to settle in, he had brutally been taken away from there.

His adult life was clearly divided into three different segments for him – before Saint Marie, on Saint Marie, and after Saint Marie. The island had been his 'crucial point', for lack of a better word. He didn't believe in fate or destiny or anything cosmic – life was a series of coincidences and decisions, one thing led to another, but there wasn't any higher power who'd arrange these coincidences to please or punish the individual person… But if he believed in fate or destiny… Saint Marie would have played an important part in his book.

Life before Saint Marie had been predictable – in most ways. That didn't mean it had always been happy. It meant that he had known what he was doing, he had known when he would be doing it, and he had had a fairly accurate idea of what would come next. Most days had followed the same pattern. He still found comfort in routines – Saint Marie hadn't changed this.

And he had been philosophical about 'happiness'… the more you hunted it, the more it escaped you. So, he had never tried too hard – he had just carried on. He still wasn't good with changes, although he had learnt how to deal with them. He liked to play it safe – most of the time.

Then he had been sent to Saint Marie, and nothing had been predictable or safe any more. He had been thrown into a mess of heat, sand, humidity, creepy-crawly creatures and jolly people. For a long time, he hadn't wanted to feel at home – he had missed his routines, the weather and the anonymity of London. Reluctantly, he had started to make compromises after a while. Then he had finally started to feel more comfortable – Camille Bordey had been an important factor there… It had taken him a while to admit that. He had just about been ready to make a move towards her and ask her out – well, he had been thinking about it, at least… Interesting enough, a one week stay in London around the end of his second year away from home had made him realise how much she really meant to him. He had missed her…

Before he had been able to figure out how to approach the subject, though, he had found himself in a hospital bed in the UK… and Saint Marie and Camille had been far away. He had faint memories of a hospital bed on Guadeloupe, a couple of visits from Camille and his mother, and the flight back to the UK – but most of that all disappeared in a big blur. They had drugged him for the flight, and he had no idea how he had survived – but he had made it.

Little by little, pieces of memories had returned – not all of them were clear, and some of them might always remain hazy, but he knew the main details. His mother had filled him in on what he didn't remember – as far as she could – and he had read the report about how Helen Reid – who had claimed to be her sister Sasha - had tried to stab him with an icepick. His life had been hanging on a thread, and apparently, the paramedics hadn't believed they could bring him back to life – everyone had thought he was dead. It was a miracle that he wasn't, really…

He had had a weird feeling about that whole reunion from the start – he had felt uncomfortable when Angela had contacted him in the first place, and he hadn't been sure if he really wanted to see Sasha – or anybody else who had been part of the old clique from university! - again, but then he had figured it might be a good way to find closure, so he had accepted the invitation… although he really hadn't been that keen.

It had been ironic that the women who had played a somewhat prominent part in his life to a certain extent had all gathered on Saint Marie – well, of course, Camille had every right to be there, it was her home island, after all. And it hadn't really been Sasha who had been on Saint Marie… But Angela had been real. She hadn't changed much – she had finished her legal studies, and she had become a successful lawyer, but she still was the same somewhat inept, ungraceful person. He knew that from this point of view, they were perhaps a good match – but he couldn't help it, he just wasn't attracted to her in 'that' way…

He didn't fall for people easily, but one thing to drive him away for sure was the attempt of generating constant harmony. He wasn't drawn out of his shell quickly, but once he was out there, he enjoyed lively discussions and flying sparks – and Angela just wasn't cut out that way. It had taken him long to understand that he actually enjoyed provocation and challenges, intellectual discussions and philosophical discourses. They could be disturbing and upsetting, but they were stimulating. There were few people out there who understood this side in him… and she hadn't been one of them.

Angela had always followed him around during their years in university and made him advances – more or less openly. He had felt awkward about that – he just couldn't feel more for her than friendship. And she still had a soft spot for him – much to his discomfort. He hadn't had the heart to reject her and tell her straight out that he still wasn't interested – his feelings hadn't changed, either…

And there had been Sasha… well, he had felt more for her than she had felt for him, and when she had got married to James, he had been devastated. He had buried his disappointment and pain deep in his heart and never talked about it… and hadn't thought of her in years. Then Angela's e-mail had arrived, and it all had come up again.

Considering that he had just accepted that his feelings for Camille had become decidedly unprofessional, it had seemed somewhat sensible to see both Angela and Sasha, draw a mental line and leave it all behind… then he'd be free for whatever might come his way, without having to wonder what had become of the women he had met in the past.

Sasha had been… well, obviously it hadn't been Sasha after all. He had felt odd about her rightaway. There had been something he couldn't quite grasp, already Angela's e-mails had given him a hint that something wasn't quite right. Angela hadn't had any idea about the identity theft that Sasha's sister Helen had committed – that much was clear now.

Apparently, his diaries had helped Camille and the new Inspector – a certain Humphrey Goodman – to solve the attempted murder. After he had exchanged a few e-mails with Angela and done some research on the net about Sasha and James, he had had a 'gut feeling' that something was really odd here, and he had felt that he could find the solution for his state of alarm somewhere in the past, so he had asked his mother to dig out the diaries and photo albums from his university times and send them to Saint Marie. They had arrived… but too late for him.

Well, fortunately, Goodman wasn't a complete moron, and Camille was the best Detective Sergeant that anybody could wish for… and of course, Fidel and Dwayne had done their respective parts very well, too. He had always known that his team was amazing. So, Helen and James had been sent to jail, and they had to pay damages to him – Richard – for attempted murder and severe personal injury.

It wasn't the world, but it had made a difference – and it had certainly helped with his savings. Quite a bit of those had been used for his rehab treatment – his parents had paid for whatever wasn't covered by his insurance so he'd get the best possible treatment, but of course, he had given it all back to them, so thanks to the compensation he had received from the Moores, he wasn't broke now, but had been able to buy this house (North London was expensive, after all… and although his house wasn't in the high society part of the area, he still had paid a shocking amount of money for it!) – and he still had a nice little financial 'cushion' in the background.

So, he mused, the whole affair had turned out well in the end. But it had been a long and hard way from the ambulance car on Saint Marie to the house in North London, and more than once he had been discouraged, worried and downhearted.

That was in the past, though. In the meantime, his life had turned around once again, and he was a happier man than ever before…

He took out a plate and a knife, prepared his morning toast and poured himself a mug of tea. Time to get ready for the day…


	2. Looking Back

Looking back

About an hour later, Richard was shaved, showered and dressed. He had already laid out his suit, shirt and tie the evening before – he had been looking forward to putting them on as he had bought the shirt and the tie for this particular day. Yes, it was silly, but he felt it was a special day, and it required special clothing.

He always put effort into his outfit – not that you could really vary a lot when you were more or less expected to dress in a dark suit, dress shirt and tie, but he hated sloppiness… and here in the UK, you could at least wear a woollen suit without passing out. Saint Marie had been a different story in that respect, of course. Oh, how he had suffered there… It was a really beautiful and amazing island, and for a holiday it might be a great destination – but working there had been a real challenge in so many ways.

It was a relief to dress properly again and not feel like sitting in a sauna after five minutes.

It also was a relief to be able to open and close all buttons and zippers and fix the tie without needing help. For a while he had had unpredictable, sporadic difficulties using his left arm and hand, and walking sometimes had turned out to be an issue as well. It had been very humbling to feel like an invalid. But he had been glad to be alive, so he had gritted his teeth and done everything he could to get fit again. And now, all was back to normal… more or less. Every once in a while, he still felt the aftereffects of what had happened, but it was nothing compared to the first half year or so. Rehab had done wonders for him.

He had no real memories of his stay in the Saint Marie hospital. After he had been re-animated, he had been unconscious, and then he had been put into an artificial coma. He remembered the hospital on Guadeloupe, though – he had been puzzled when he had woken up there one day, foggy-headed, finding his mother sitting by his bedside. It had taken him quite a while to understand that he had just about survived a stabbing attack – and with an icepick, on top of that… What a perversion to use an instrument like that to send someone into the next world!

It had been sheer coincidence that Helen had missed his heart! He had fallen into cardiac arrest – a shock reaction of his body - and Helen had thought he was dead. Which was a good thing because she surely would have made another attempt if she had thought the first one hadn't been successful…

Fortunately, Angela had found him in time and alarmed the police as well as an ambulance. He was very grateful for that… she had helped to save his life. He hadn't had the chance to thank her in person – and he wasn't keen on doing so, either, as he was afraid she'd get sentimental and wanted to leave her in the past! – but he had sent her a card a few months later – after he had left rehab. It had been hard enough to find the words – what do you say in a case like that? "Thank you for saving my life"? Didn't that sound a little too pompous? But then again, was there anything else you could say? He had settled for something like "I don't know what to say, so I'll just say 'thank you'…" – and just to be on the safe side, he hadn't put his address on the envelope. He had been aware of how cowardly this was – but he hadn't wanted to give her any obvious possibility to get back to him. He knew that – if she really wanted – she could find him, but apparently she had got the hint.

He had hoped for her that she had moved on and found closure in the meantime – but he hadn't cared enough to try and find out. He had to deal with his own issues.

His mother had visited him regularly, and Camille had come a couple of times as well. He had mostly been in a daze and had lost all feeling for time, but he had noticed her presence. It had been comforting to know she was there, and he seemed to remember that she had held his hand, stroked his arm and kissed his forehead during her visits. Her perfume had been in the air – fruity and sensual – and it had had a soothing effect on him. When he had been clearer in his head again, he had thought he had all imagined it – but even so, it had helped him to pull through.

A little while after he had been transported to the UK, received further treatment and eventually been taken off most of the drugs, he had started to brood. He hadn't been able to focus on reading yet, listening to music just had carried him away and made him teary-eyed (which he hated), and he had had to fill the time between meals, examinations and nighttime – when he had been supposed to be sleeping. Which he hadn't managed very well during some nights… too many unhappy thoughts had come to his mind, uncalled for, but he hadn't been able to shrug them off.

What if he didn't recover and couldn't work any more? Would he depend on his insurances and welfare? Well, not very likely, but it was a possibility. He had noticed the occasional bouts of paralysis in his left side with some concern. He had realised that he had trouble remembering words sometimes. That had scared him out of his wits. He had felt helpless and frustrated. He had also observed that he occasionally mixed up the chronological order of events. That had confused him… and it hadn't been funny. The doctors had said it was temporary – but what did they know?

And what if he recovered? He had known he wouldn't return to Saint Marie. There wouldn't be any place for him – Humphrey Goodman had taken over the shack, the station and the team. So, it would be a position somewhere in the UK – in the Greater London area, hopefully, but not in Croydon, please! There had been so many 'what ifs' and 'if onlys' – it had been hard not to fall into a depression.

Fortunately, his parents had come to visit him regularly. In the beginning, their visits had been blurry and tiring for him, but it had become better with time, and when he had been weaned off the drugs, he actually had rather enjoyed their presence. His mother had brought him greeting cards that had arrived in the mail for him – after a while they had started to pile up on his nightstand. He had enjoyed looking at them… most of them had been from Saint Marie… the team as a whole had sent a few, and then there had been individual ones from Camille. So, they hadn't forgotten him – that had comforted him in a strange way. He hadn't been able to respond properly, but his mother had assured him that she and Camille were e-mailing regularly, so he had known that she was getting updated on his progress. Or lack thereof.

He had wondered if she was still thinking of him, so the greeting cards had been reassuring in a way. During some of his nights in hospital he had been lying awake, thinking of her and wondering what could have happened if he had been more open about his feelings… If only he had made a move to her… But then again, done was done.

And then the doubts had come up again… what if the greeting cards had only been sent out of politeness… or – worse! – pity? A mortifying thought…

However, while Camille definitely had a polite and empathetic streak, it had seemed highly unlikely that she'd keep writing just because she wanted to be civil. Her cards hadn't been philosophical or 'in depth', but she had a knack for making him laugh, and her encouragement and support had been more than welcome. The fact that she and his mother were in e-mail contact also had been reassuring for him – he just had hoped his mother hadn't given her what he considered 'too much information'… Some things should better be left unsaid.

He hadn't mentioned his feelings to his parents – the relationship with his father had improved since they both had made more efforts to communicate, but emotions still were a bit of a taboo topic… and he hadn't wanted his mother to get too suspicious about his non-existing relationship with his DS. After all, there hadn't been anything to talk about…

Although… he had had to admit that Camille was special to him – his mother had asked a few thoughtful questions that had made him squirm a little, but of course, it had been evident that as a rule, you wouldn't expect a subordinate officer to jump on the 'chance' to visit their boss in hospital regularly. His mother had agreed to Camille's visits after a longer conversation with her, as he had found out, but still she hadn't really expected that his DS would show up nearly everyday during his stay in the Saint Marie hospital and make the trip to Guadeloupe several times to see him there. He had settled for a lame "we are friends", but his mother had just given him a knowing smile that had made him uncomfortably aware of how he still wasn't able to hide the really important things from her.

Richard took his briefcase and the umbrella – the drizzle had returned. He checked his watch and realised that by now, Shaw hopefully had found her on the airport. Shaw was a nice chap – eager to learn and quite resourceful. And although Richard clearly noticed that the younger officer found him a little eccentric – for lack of a better word – he didn't judge his boss… he simply accepted his quirks and didn't make a fuss about Richard's idiosyncrasies.

Before he left the house, he turned around once more to check the little hall and the general impression that the house conveyed. The door to the sitting room was open, and the bouquet of fresh summer flowers that he had bought after work yesterday and put on the dinner table had survived and looked pretty good – the flowers were beginning to open their buds. By the afternoon they would present themselves in their full glory… Everything was tidy, but didn't appear impersonal, and all in all, it looked like a real home.

Content with himself, he stepped out of the entrance door, opened the umbrella and turned to walk down the pavement. He walked without thinking… and his mind wandered back again to his reconvalescence.

It had actually been a very welcome change when rehab had started – he had become bored out of his wits in hospital. He had been able to get up and do things, but he had felt a little useless, and his physical condition had been less than satisfying. He had been weak like a kitten, as his mother had called it. He had pulled a face at that analogy, but had to agree with her. The bouts of paralysis still had been an issue, and he had been beginning to fear they'd stick around forever. The doctors still had claimed they'd disappear eventually, given some time. Admittedly, he had been doing better altogether, but it had frustrated him to be so unfit. In rehab, he had finally got the chance to work actively against the 'decay', as he had called it.

His doctors had suggested a rehab centre somewhere between Guildford and Woking – that meant that his parents could visit him fairly easily. It was about an hour to get to the rehab centre from their home in Horsham, and in case they didn't want to drive, there even was a train connection – admittedly, the train took about twenty minutes longer, but at least it was a possibility. They could easily set off from home after lunch and stay until before dinner, if that was what they wanted – and since they sometimes went shopping or had lunch in Guildford or even in Woking when they felt like seeing something different, it wouldn't be much of a sacrifice to pop in and see how he was doing. His mother also had a friend who lived in the Woking area, so visiting her and seeing Richard could be combined easily.

Richard had never expected that the relationship with his parents would change for the better – they had never been close, and particularly with his father, he had had issues… he had felt that Robert Poole was disappointed with him. As they both had made more efforts, however, he had understood that Camille had been right after all – his father had difficulties expressing emotions, and (unfortunately) he shared that character trait. It had been eye-opening to understand that he had got it all wrong over the years – his father was actually proud of what Richard had accomplished. He didn't care all that much about financial success, rank or prestige – it was more about how carefully and responsibly Richard solved his cases, how he had all his financial things in order, and how he lived a quiet and unspectacular life – down-to-earth and decent.

So, the fact that the rehab centre hadn't been far from his parents had been a bonus – and he had arrived there some time late in May, several months after the stabbing. He had spent most of spring in hospital, and it seemed likely that he'd spend most of summer in rehab… so he had been determined to make the best of it, get as fit as possible – and start his new life then.


	3. The Road to Recovery

On his way to work – it was a walk of about twenty minutes, give or take a little – Richard smiled, thinking back to his time in rehab. What a roller coaster time that had been… failures and successes had alternated, and he had found the experience very challenging. He had been so frustrated because things just wouldn't go the way he had 'planned' them. He had felt exhausted quickly at first, and the least little thing had startled him and made him jump (and he had always been a rather nervous person, anyway… at least if he had been thrown into unfamiliar surroundings. Once he had familiarised himself with an environment, he was usually fine). That had been a consequence of the stabbing attack, the psychologist had told him. Great – as if he hadn't known that himself…

The whole psychological aspect that had been part of the rehab had initially put him off – he hadn't wanted to sit down and talk to a psychologist about whatever issues he might have. Not that he had any, mind you… But they hadn't let him get away without having at least a weekly 'session', as they called it. Fortunately, they hadn't insisted on him joining a therapy group– he had had single sessions, and although he had felt very doubtful about the whole concept at first, it had actually done him good to get a few things off his chest. Not that he had revealed an awful lot about himself, but he had talked about a couple of things that had bothered and made him restless for a while, and it had helped him that someone neutral had been listening and pointing out possibilities he might want to look into. It had been more 'solution oriented' than he had had expected.

Also, he had received physiotherapy to support his coordination and sense of balance and training to regain his strength – after the long time in hospital, he had needed to build up muscles again. He had learnt some relaxation techniques, too – he had had the chance to try yoga, tai chi, progressive muscle relaxation, autogenic training, mindfulness training, meditation…

Although he had been sceptical, yoga hadn't turned out to be as useless as he had thought it would (he had had a mental image of esoteric 'healing sessions', mixed with chanting and rubbish about chakras… the yoga instructor in the rehab centre, however, had turned out to be very down-to-earth and pragmatic, so there hadn't been anything new age-y or 'spherical' about her lessons), but in the end he had chosen tai chi. He had felt a little silly at first, but it had indeed helped him to focus and 'switch off', so he had decided to stick with it. He still did it now – not regularly, but from time to time.

Cardio training had been part of the whole programme as well, so he had spent quite some time on the stationary bike (not very interesting!) or walking the grounds (much better!) – either by himself, with a small group of other patients, or together with his parents.

One day, it had been about five weeks since his arrival, his mother had taken a lengthy walk with him. She had come by herself that day, by train, and planned to see her friend in Woking for dinner and spend the night at her place before returning home on the next day. They had talked about how time had passed since his return to the UK, how it seemed to be a full time job to recover, how he had no idea about how things would continue as far as his job with the police was concerned…

They both had been a little exhausted after almost an hour of walking and had found a bench to sit down. His mother had opened her handbag, rummaged around in between her mobile phone, three open packages of Kleenex, a sewing kit and other 'interesting' things and finally taken out another greeting card… from Camille. He had been so embarrassed. She hadn't stopped writing… And he… he had not written back once – he hadn't had any idea what to say. He had spent so much time thinking about her, about all the missed opportunities and his cowardice, and along with the insecurity about his own future, that hadn't been the right frame of mind for him to sit down and write – at least that had been what he had told himself.

He had opened the oversized long envelope, a fruit shaped cocktail decoration drinking straw had fallen out. The card had said "Having a drink and thinking of you!" on the outside, and on the inside, she had written a few personal lines, closing with "Missing you – always... your friend - Camille"… Richard had looked at the words, and his right index finger had touched the little smiley that she had drawn next to her name.

His mother had said softly "She doesn't give up easily, does she?" He had given her a sideways glance and a crooked smile, shaken his head and said "Never. That's not the way she's cut out... I wish..." "What?" his mother had interjected. He had looked up and replied thoughtfully "I wish I'd have a chance to see her again. I can't write to her – I mean, I don't quite know what to say, and... oh well, you know what I'm like. It's hard enough when you talk to someone in person, but when you write, you cannot see their reaction, and..."

She had nodded and probed "But you think that if you saw her again, you'd know what to say?" He had looked at her and said "I hope I would." Then he had remembered the 'doll with the wonky eye' episode and chuckled. "Although you never know... I mean, I sometimes say things… and they come out the wrong way..." He had told her about the Erzulie festival then and the days leading up to the event when he had told Camille that she clearly wasn't like a young, unfinished wine, but rather like a mature Rioja. "And she accused me of calling her old – when I wanted to convey that she was refined and cultured!" he concluded with a sad smile. His mother had laughed and admitted that this hadn't been an example for a successful attempt at complimenting a lady, although the intention had been good. "But you tried," she had said, "and I'm sure that in her heart she knew you didn't mean to offend her."

He had looked at her doubtfully, but hadn't made any comment. He had always had a talent for putting his foot in, and there had been days when Camille had brought out the worst in him. But she had never let him down. Every once in a while, she had poked fun at him and provoked him, but in the end, she had always been loyal and reliable. What a shame that they had never had a chance to say goodbye… Although, he had mused, he'd rather not say goodbye to her. No, he'd much rather say completely different things to her. But well… His mother had quietly touched his hand, and so they had sat in silence for a while.

Eventually, they had got up again and continued the walk – without returning to the topic of Camille, Saint Marie or anything connected to this.

After that conversation, he had been debating with himself once again about writing back, but he just hadn't managed to make up his mind. And the days had passed by – before he had known it, another week had been over.

One afternoon, he had come out of the physiotherapy room – fairly pleased with himself because he had felt that he had made quite a bit of progress with his flexibility and coordination skills – when the receptionist had called him back and said "Your parents are here, Mr Poole – they are waiting for you in the park. Your mother said you'd know where!"

Without further ado, he had gone outside to meet them – there hadn't been any other appointments or examinations on his schedule, and he hadn't wanted to keep them waiting, so he had gone into the garden without getting changed before. It wouldn't be the first time they'd see him in sweatpants and a polo shirt, anyway...

He had seen them sitting on their bench, his father's arm had been around his mother's shoulders, and he had just thought to himself that he hadn't seen them like that since his childhood when he suddenly had noticed a slim figure leaning on a nearby tree, watching him intently. A woman with caramel-coloured skin and black curls, in jeans, a long-sleeved, blue checkered blouse and sneakers. He had looked at her – and hadn't dared to believe his eyes – could that be... no, it couldn't. He was imagining this…

He had moved closer, and the figure had left her place next to the tree, coming up to him... and seconds later, Camille had been in his arms, hugging him tightly, tears coming from her eyes. It had been so good to hold her – he had imagined this so often over the past months, but of course he had never expected it to happen... it had seemed too unlikely and soap-opera-like. And yet, it had come true.

Her curls had tickled his chin, and she had drenched his shirt with her tears… and he had made a flippant remark about that, but this time, it had come out the right way... she had laughed a little unsteadily, and he had felt her hand tenderly stroking his shoulderblade and sliding down his back, as if she had wanted to make sure he was real...

He had felt his parents' eyes resting on them, and a little embarrassed, he had pulled away. Displaying his emotions so openly still had been an issue for him – most likely, it would always be this way, although he had become a bit better lately... But Camille hadn't been offended, she had followed him to the bench, and they had sat down with his parents. They had told him then how it had happened that Camille had come over to the UK, and he had understood his mother's question then if he really wished to see Camille again. The day before his mother's visit, Camille had informed her that most likely she'd have to escort a suspect to Manchester, and his mother had decided to find out if Richard wanted to see her.

After a few minutes, his parents had got up and gone for a walk so that he and Camille would have time to talk a little. He hadn't known what to say – all he had wanted was sit there, look at her and listen to her voice... at least at this point. How he had missed her... He had tried to tell her, but then had panicked, and so they had talked a little about Saint Marie, and she had asked him about his health, the rehab centre, the exercises and treatment, his progress... Several times, he had mixed up the timeline of events, and he had lost the thread of conversation twice, too – but she hadn't minded. She had helped him to get back on track, and it had turned out that his worries she might think him pitiful or pathetic had all been for nothing. There had been nothing but affection and compassion in her eyes - not pity, shock or disgust because of his less than spectacular condition.

Eventually, his parents had returned, and after another hour, he had been by himself again, but Camille had promised to come back, without his parents – and two days later, she had been there, waiting for him in the garden again. They had gone for a long walk and talked about her work, the team, the Commissioner, Humphrey Goodman and his quirks, some of the cases... and he had felt a little 'homesick'.

However, he had been well aware of the fact that he couldn't return to Saint Marie – and he had said as much to her. She had nodded and said quietly "I know." He had taken her hand and held it for a moment – and she had not made any efforts to withdraw, but had squeezed his fingers lightly. Again, he had wanted to tell her how much he had missed her, how much he enjoyed her visit and how much he wanted her to stay… but he just hadn't known how to say it – and he hadn't been sure if she had wanted to hear it at all.

They had finally returned to the centre, and she had accompanied him back to his room – she hadn't seen it so far, so he had invited her in, and they had sat down and talked more – about her return flight tomorrow, the Commissioner, his professional prospects... – until she had checked the time and realised that she'd have to go in ten or fifteen minutes at the latest so she wouldn't miss her train. The next one was an hour later, and that would be too late. So, they had got up... and when she had already moved to open the door, she had looked at him, sadness in her eyes... "So, I guess this is it?" she had asked.

That had been when he had understood that it would be up to him now… he would have to make a move, or she would be gone – and it would be forever this time. He had come closer to her, not quite sure yet how to say it – whatever it was that he wanted to say... and then, he had mustered up the courage to take her in his arms and tell her that he didn't want her to go.

He still didn't know how he had found the nerve to say it, but it had been the right thing, as it had turned out quickly. She had put her arms around him and pulled him closer, and when he had kissed her, her soft lips had opened lightly under his mouth, and he had felt her pressing her body against his. Instinctively, his grip had become firmer, his hands bolder, and his tongue more forward, and she had sighed when he had finally let her go. He had tried to say more, but hadn't come very far – she had kissed him then, with passion and enthusiasm. For a moment, the world had come to a halt.

"I don't want to leave, but I have to go for now," she had whispered afterwards. He had nodded, and she had added "If you want me to, I'll come back, though... I can't make promises about when, but I'll try my best..." He had kissed her fingertips and said softly "I guess it's pretty obvious that I want you to come back, huh?" She had laughed happily and caressed his cheek... and a few minutes later, she had been gone.

It had taken her longer than anticipated to come back, Richard mused as he reached this point of his memories. Much longer. On one hand, that had been agonizing. On the other hand, it had perhaps been a good thing because his return to work had been on the agenda, and he wouldn't have had much time for her, anyway…


	4. Developments

Richard arrived at his workplace rather early. He was determined to leave early today, so in order to get everything accomplished, he had to start early as well. He looked at the stack of files on his desk and sighed. Applications from officers who wanted to join the department, mostly. He knew that his e-mail inbox would be full of correspondence as well. But well, it was a good job, and the variety of tasks made it interesting…

In September, he had been fit to work part time again, according to the doctors. They had recommended a 60% workload for the first six months so he could re-adjust to being back to work, and the Met had offered him a position in North London. He had been pleased with that – he liked the area, and he wouldn't have wanted to return to Croydon, anyway… not that they would have wanted him back, either, for that matter…

His house in Croydon had been sold, and he had started looking for a suitable place in North London. For a few weeks, he had resided in the Met's guesthouse, but he had found a nice little house rather quickly – it just had needed some remodeling, so he had had to wait a little until he had been able to move for good. The house was in a respectable neighbourhood, though not in the super-posh part of the area, so it was affordable for him. The lady who had sold it had said she and her husband were going to move abroad (an 'ashram' was mentioned), and they needed the money, but didn't want to sell the place to just anyone, so they looked at each and every potential buyer individually, and if they had 'good vibes' about someone, they'd 'consider' them.

It had sounded somewhat far-out to him – some people really lived by strange principles, he had mused – but luck had been on his side. They had felt that he would really appreciate the house for what it was – and he should have it. Richard hadn't placed any bets on getting the place – from experience he knew that he usually wasn't the kind of person that sent out 'good vibes' to others, but maybe it had helped that he worked for the police and had a regular income – that might have improved his 'aura'… along with the large deposit that he had been ready to pay… and so, much to his satisfaction, the house had been his eventually.

It was a nice house - about the same size like his Croydon house, just a little bit larger, plus he had a tiny backyard, and the rooms were laid out differently, so he had a living / sitting / dining room downstairs, along with a small study where he placed a sofabed (so it could serve as a guestroom), a fairly large kitchen and a tiny bathroom with a shower – it reminded him of his bathroom on Saint Marie, actually - , and upstairs, he had two bedrooms and a full bathroom, complete with tub and everything. For one person, it was rather generous, but after the very limited space in his shack on Saint Marie, he had wanted something a little larger and more convenient. He could afford it, so why not? And of course, having a houseguest would be much easier this way…

Six weeks after he had started his new job, he had moved in. He had chucked out all the Buddha heads, Ganesha statues and other knick-knacks that the previous owners had left behind and given them to a charity shop, and his parents had helped him to find suitable furniture – fortunately, there were a few built-in closets, the previous owners had taken a selection of items with them, but had left their surprisingly comfortable sofa and a few smaller pieces, like shelves and side tables, and his mother's friend from Woking had given him her small dinner table with four matching chairs as she had just bought a bigger new set for her own home…

Coincidentally, all items were made of the same wood - walnut – so although the styles were different, they matched somehow. It made the interior of his house look rather unique. His mother had made him a sofa cover, curtains and cushions in his favourite colours, that had given it all a consistent look, he had found matching rugs, and little by little, things had shaped up.

For two weeks, he had slept on a futon that had been left upstairs by the previous owners, but it hadn't been very convenient, and his back had started to ache badly, so he had bought a large new bed with a high-end mattress in the end of October – it had been a display item in the nearby furniture store, and it had been delivered only a few days later, without a waiting period. And they even had taken the futon and discarded it for him – an additional bonus. He hadn't been too keen on having to take care of that, on top of everything else.

So, everything had gone smoothly in regard to the house, but he couldn't say the same about work. He had been given a DI position, formally, but due to the fact that he could only cope with a little more than half of the regular hours, his work had not been very satisfying. He hadn't had the chance to really participate in solving cases completely due to his reduced workload, and so he often had ended up just writing or compiling reports – and he had found that extremely frustrating.

The younger relief officer who had taken over his 40 % had been a part timer before and theoretically had been happy to work 90 % now as that meant a nearly full salary – but his other workplace had been at another station, so the commute hadn't been easy for him. It had taken a while until they had been able to sort out a decent way to share the work, and eventually, Richard had worked on three days per week while the relief officer had come on the other two days. He had felt constantly misinformed, useless and underrated, and he had realised once more how satisfying his work on Saint Marie had been. Why on earth had he ever wished to leave the island? He had no idea anymore…

He had fallen into brooding and wondering what he was doing with his life. On some days, things had gone well, and he had felt he had contributed to the success of his team. On other days, it had been different. So, he had been a little moody and found it hard to feel comfortable with himself.

As much as he would have liked to deny it, the 60% workload had been just right for him. He still had felt exhausted quickly, and he had realised that he would need more time than anticipated to get really fit and healthy again. Theoretically, that had been clear – but well, knowing something and understanding it… that obviously were two different shoes. Well, after all, his condition had become better, little by little… so there had been progress, although there still had been lots of room for improvement!

At least he had got on pretty well with the team, so that had been a bonus. He had become friendly with a few people, and although he had still remained reserved, he had at least not the feeling to be the odd man out literally all the time.

And there had been the situation with Camille. He had wished he could visit her over Christmas, but he couldn't possibly take off time at this point, and so a trip to Saint Marie had been out of the question. He had worried about their relationship – whatever it was -, and sometimes at night, when he had been lying in his bed all by himself, thinking of her and listening to the still rather unfamiliar noises in and around the house, he had wondered if her visit had only been a dream and if he had imagined her kisses and caresses… or if he had interpreted too much into the whole thing. After all, why would a beautiful, young woman like Camille want an old grumpy bachelor who had nothing to recommend himself? But then again… there had been that look in her eyes, and she had not stopped communicating with him after her visit…

He had also worried a little about the connection to her new boss… he had heard about Goodman's father who had been a well-known barrister with an amazing reputation before he had retired a few years ago, and the family had always moved in the best circles. Compared to that, he and his parents seemed rather insignificant. Of course, he had been aware of Camille's indifference to all that. She had never cared about status or money – but still… And the fact that Goodman was married obviously hadn't meant that Camille had been safe from his advances – she had mentioned in an e-mail that apparently his marriage was about to fall apart, and it had seemed they had been spending more time together. Admittedly, she had also made a snarky remark about how his constant 'vague niceness' and 'annoying indecision' had even made Fidel roll his eyes, and she had mentioned that his clumsiness was a permanent threat to everyone's safety and bothersome beyond belief – she wouldn't have said that to him if she had taken a shine to Humphrey. But well… Humphrey was there, and he wasn't…

Of course, he had known that all his worries and doubts wouldn't change a thing. And it had been reassuring that her e-mails had come regularly (more regularly than his, as he had to admit…), they had also talked on the phone and skyped a couple of times… but still, he would have given anything to see her again in the flesh. There had been moments when he had felt the longing so strongly – usually caused by an innocent remark from someone else, or by a memory that had come over him – that he had had to pull himself together in order not to scream with frustration. And he had thought of her so intensely that it hurt. In the evenings he had written her long e-mails – and deleted them before he had hit 'send'. He just hadn't dared to pour out his heart to her – he had been afraid of making a fool of himself. Oh, those self-doubts – they had driven him crazy.

Then, Christmas had arrived. He had been a little depressed because of circumstances – work had been going fairly okay by then, but he hadn't been happy, and he had missed Camille enormously – it had almost scared him a little. He had dreaded the visit at his parents' as he had been afraid they'd talk about Camille all the time – they had really, truly enjoyed her visit, and his mother had kept in touch with her. But then again, he had become closer to his parents over the past year, and it would have been nasty not to accept their invitation to come and spend Christmas with them. Not to mention he'd feel lonely…

She had sent a card – with Father Christmas sitting on the beach, wearing a striped swimsuit and sipping a cocktail! – and he had tried to phone her, but had only reached her voicemail. On Christmas Eve, he had given up… he had known he would hear from her eventually. But it had made him sad that he couldn't talk to her and wish her happy holidays. So, he'd sent her a text. He had set off to visit his parents, and when he had arrived there in the early evening, he had made up his mind – he would enjoy the holidays with his parents, no matter what, and afterwards, he'd just try to get in touch again and be more consistent about e-mailing.

When he had entered his parents' house, he had been fairly calm and balanced again, and his mother's question in the hall if he had heard from Camille hadn't unsettled him. He had taken off his coat and made a casual remark about her card and that he'd try to call her on the next day. Then his father had come to greet him, and they had all moved towards the living room. Richard had opened the door, and whatever he had been about to say… it had never been said.

He had stopped mid-sentence when he had seen Camille standing there, looking absolutely stunning in her holiday attire and smiling at him brightly. The Christmas tree behind her had paled in comparison… Her head had been tilted to one side, and her curly hair had surrounded her face like a halo, illuminated by the candlelight. He had completely forgotten that his parents had been behind him, and with a few big steps he had moved forward, grabbed her and given in to his feelings. He had felt her arms around his neck, her hand in his hair, and her lips coming apart under his – and he hadn't wanted this to end. Never ever. It had taken him some effort to break away…

Finally, her head had been on his shoulder, her lips had caressed his neck, and she had whispered "Merry Christmas, Richard!" "You've come back," he had replied softly, with an incredulous undertone. She had laughed a little and said "Told you I would, didn't I?"

It had been a perfect evening, and Richard hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. His parents had exchanged knowing glances, and for once, he hadn't cared – he had just been grateful that they had done this for him. He never would have dared to invite her over, out of – oh, at least a million of reasons, and most likely all of them were rubbish…

They had had dinner, played board games, talked, laughed… Camille and he had told his parents about Saint Marie, described some of the circumstances of the cases they had solved together and given them a lively picture of work at the station. It had been a very harmonious evening.

When it had been time to retire, he had become a little nervous, though. He had climbed the stairs to the first floor after Camille, and he had debated with himself – there had been his longing on one side and his insecurity and sense of propriety on the other. On the landing upstairs, they had stood together for a moment. She had looked at him – the lamp from downstairs had cast a dim light – and he had seen the love shining in her eyes. Feeling almost dizzy, he had dropped his bag… and before he had been able to say a word, she had taken his hand, opened the door to the guestroom and pulled him inside…


	5. Making Headway

At around ten, Richard had made a serious dent into the stack of files on his desk. He was happy that the department was slowly beginning to take the shape that he had envisioned when he had accepted the job. Not that it was a completely new department… it had been around for a while already, but it had been sorely neglected. International cooperation was mostly left to Interpol, which was fine in general, but with the world getting smaller, even 'regular' police officers were confronted with international crime on a more regular basis, so there was a need for training on how to deal with it.

They also needed more good translators. There were plenty of translators in London, but not so many of them were familiar with the specific requirements of police work, some very good ones had retired recently, and so they were looking for qualified people in that segment, too.

Richard hadn't expected that he'd have to deal with so many little details, but he enjoyed it. And the teaching part was great fun, too. He had always enjoyed doing his little homespun experiments on Saint Marie – where they had no forensics and ballistics and he had had to wait for results from the lab on Guadeloupe for literally everything. So, out of necessity, he had started to experiment with the basic items that were available in every household store, and it had often helped him to find clear evidence in otherwise fairly hopeless situations.

His first course for basic forensics at the Crime Academy had been a full success, and the second round had been booked out less than two days after it had been announced on the website and opened for registration. He had never been a people person, but the situation in the classroom and the lab had been similar to the denouéments on Saint Marie – he was brilliant at what he was doing, and he was able to convey his enthusiasm to the officers in class. His eagerness was contagious, and everyone listened attentively.

He had been offered this position a little over three months ago – when he had to return to work full time. He had not hesitated to let the officer in charge at HR know that he wasn't happy with his job at the station, and that he'd like to do something different. Of course, he could have come to work at the station full time, but he had had a feeling that he'd need a new challenge, plus it would have meant that his relief officer would have no other choice but return to a 50% job… If he left, they'd maybe offer him his – Richard's – position.

The job at the Crime Academy hadn't sounded too promising initially, particularly because the HR officer had pointed out that he'd have to represent the department and attend events and all that – Richard was well aware of the fact that he wasn't too great with flattery and honeyed words, but he had figured he might find a way to deal with it, and the promotion to DCI and the promise to be able to take influence on staff decisions had made the offer more attractive.

So, after some thinking, he had accepted the position. He hadn't told Camille about it – at least not in detail. He had mentioned he'd return to full time work, and he'd join another department where he'd do a different line of work, but he hadn't said more because he hadn't had any idea about how things would pan out. Also, Camille had had a lot on her mind at that time – Fidel had left the team after having been transferred to St. Lucia, and his substitute had only just arrived… in between the Commissioner had 'helped out', and of course, that hadn't gone without trouble. The new addition to the team had arrived eventually, and while Florence obviously was a nice girl, very clever and keen, and Camille liked her, she needed a little guidance, and Humphrey had relied on his DS even more than before. So, Richard had not wanted to add to her worries by talking too much about his new job and the things he had to do there.

He really missed talking to her… skype and the phone were fine, but it just wasn't the same, plus the time difference had made it difficult. When she had stayed at his house right after Christmas, it had been so much easier to connect…

He remembered how he had woken up early on Christmas morning and wondered if the last night had been real – or if it had perhaps only been a very lively version of one of the dreams that had come to haunt him every once in a while – and then Camille's hand had moved over his bare chest, her fingers had caressed the scars that the icepick attack had left behind, and he had known that she was indeed very real, and last night actually had happened…

She had snuggled up to him, and they had spent another blissful hour in bed, cuddling, kissing and listening to the faint noises from outside, before they had finally decided to get up. Downstairs, his parents had started to rummage in the kitchen, his dad had clinked around with dishes, and they had heard his mother's muffled voice giving him orders, veiled as requests. It had reminded him of school holidays…

Christmas Day and Boxing Day had gone by very quickly – they had gone for walks, talked and laughed together and with his parents… Richard couldn't remember when he had last been so relaxed and happy. And the nights – spent in the guestroom with Camille – had been magic…

When he had returned back to London, Camille had come along, and his parents had just smiled knowingly. He had had work to do at the station, but she hadn't minded – she had gone for long walks and explored the neighbourhood, and in the afternoons, she had been waiting for him when he had come home. Once – when the weather hadn't been good enough for spending time outside - she had baked a cake for him. It had turned out somewhat lopsided, but it had been tasty… She had also found a couple of new TV channels for him – French ones, of course. He had just raised his eyebrows at that, but he had understood that she was also trying to make his house her home by doing that – and that had felt good and reassuring…

The whole scenario had been simply idyllic. They had sat in the living room and talked about life, work, home and what it meant to each of them, she had listened to his ramblings and told him about her wishes, goals and dreams, they had laughed together, exchanged banter… It had just been so easy to get comfortable on the sofa, rest his head in her lap and feel her hand stroking his head and tousling his hair. They had also argued about a few things, so it hadn't been all roses, unicorns and fairy tales, but they had always reconciled quickly.

Her temperament still was mercurial, but she was much more gentle and a lot less critical towards him now than when he had first met her – all those years ago… "You are a rude, rude man" she had said to him – and she had been right… he had been rude, but only because he had felt lost and misunderstood, trapped on an island he hadn't liked, with people whose mentality he hadn't understood, surrounded by a team he hadn't known… not to mention heaps of sand, free range chickens and a lizard in his house… Nothing had seemed right to him. It had been a very confusing time, and he had felt very insecure and bewildered.

One evening they had been talking about family and relationships, and she had told him about the unexpected encounter with her father a while ago. She had mentioned it some time before, but hadn't talked about details. The conversation had started harmlessly enough, but then her voice had become rough and unsteady as she had talked about her ambivalent feelings, and he had held her in his arms when she had started to cry and tell him about all the insecurities and suppressed emotions that had been tormenting her – the overwhelming feeling of loss, of being abandoned, of being not worthy of love…

It had touched him deeply to see her like this – she had always appeared so pragmatic, smart and strong, and yet there had been these demons in her head, torturing her and telling her that she wasn't good enough. Demons that he had been familiar with for all his life – but that he had never suspected to haunt her as well.

Of course, he had always known that she wasn't as tough as she liked to present herself – despite her sometimes rather stroppy and rebellious behaviour - but the way she had opened up that evening had taken their relationship to another level. He had let her cry (and soak his shirt once again!) – about all the losses, pain and grief she had gone through, from her father's desertion of the family over Aimee's murder to himself getting stabbed and anything else in between – and stroked her heaving shoulders until the sobbing had subsided and she had finally calmed down, wiped off the tears and rested her head on his chest. He had known that this had been the ultimate proof of her trust, and he had vowed to himself that he would do anything to justify her faith in him and never ever let her down.

New Year's Eve had been spent in bed, surrounded by candlelight – that had been her idea… - and at midnight they had sat up and toasted to the new year with champagne. It had felt slightly decadent, but Richard had thought it a brilliant idea. On that occasion, he had gathered all his courage and told her that he loved her and that he wanted them to stay together – as if she hadn't known that already… She had kissed him tenderly. Then, he had felt her hands and lips on his body, and she had shown him in every possible way that she felt the same way about him – before she finally had said it, too. In French – but he hadn't had any difficulties to understand. And they had promised each other that they'd try anything to find a way to get out of this long distance thing and be together…

Some days later, he had taken her back to his parents' house, they had spent a final day with his parents, a final night in the guestroom, holding on to one another… and on the next morning, he had taken her to the airport. His parents had remained tactfully in the background when Camille and Richard had kissed each other goodbye. He hadn't cared what anyone thought – the woman he loved was going away to the other side of the planet, and he didn't know when they would be together again. He had felt his heart ache when she had gone through passport control, but then she had turned around, given him a radiant smile and waved to him – that had lifted his spirits again.

His mother had softly touched his arm, and his father had cleared his throat and said gruffly "Don't worry, son. She'll be back, and you'll work out a way to be together. Where there is a will, there is a way!"

A few months after that, the new position had come up, and only a week after he had started the job, the head of department, Potter, had called him – so he could meet the head of the French department they were collaborating with – and the deputy who was more or less Richard's counterpart. Madame Dubois – the head officer – had been charming, smart and very resolute, and her deputy, Monsieur Leblanc, had been lenient and forbearing. They had all gone out for lunch together, and while they had been waiting for their food, Dubois and Leblanc had asked him about his time on Saint Marie. He had come up with a few anecdotes, and particularly the episode about the amateur sleuth who had popped up in the most unbelievable places during one of the investigations amused them all enormously. "She said that most crimes are committed either because of sex – or was it love? - or money," he concluded, "and she had been right after all."

During dessert, Leblanc had lamented a little about how hard it was to find qualified officers who were ready to join the international department and go to other countries for teaching assignments… and that had made Richard think.

Two days after that, he and Camille had skyped, and she had complained a little about how things had been developing at the station. They had just solved a murder – the owner of a failing surf school had been shot – so that had been another success, but she had not been happy with how stupidly Humphrey had acted in a few situations. She had also mentioned how annoying his behaviour had been when they had interviewed her ex-boyfriend on the beach, Nicky, a passionate surfer – who had helped them solve the case eventually… and how he had shown signs of possessiveness and jealousy when she and Nicky had talked on the phone or got together.

Richard had raised his eyebrows at the mention of an ex-boyfriend, and Camille had sighed exasperatedly as she had said "Don't worry, Richard. If you haven't noticed, it's 'ex-boyfriend', and if you paid me a million pounds, I wouldn't return to him. There is a reason why he's an ex – several ones, actually! One is that he's got an ego that won't fit through a barn door. It's been ages since we split up, anyway. He's a nice enough chap, and I still like him as a friend, but that doesn't mean I'd want to live with him. We have been surfing together every once in a while, but that's it. I'd much rather sit in your kitchen and listen to you lamenting about the world than ride the surf with Nicky…" It had sounded entirely genuine, and he had smiled happily.

She had smiled back at him – reassuringly - but her expression had changed again when she had continued crossly "And later on, Humphrey and I were talking about dates and how hard it can be to find the right person – and I said you've got to kiss many frogs to find your prince – you know, something general like that. Humphrey knew that I had been out with someone – I told you about that last time we talked, that old schoolfriend I had bumped into… I had claimed it was a date so Humphrey would leave me alone… Anyway, he had the audacity to ask me if I had kissed my recent date. I mean, come on, that's none of his business, is it? It's driving me bonkers how he's not respecting the boundaries. Needless to say, I didn't even bother to reply… Sometimes, I don't know what to do any more. I mean, he's my boss, nothing else, and he should behave accordingly, especially since I have never encouraged him to come up with any other behaviour…"

Richard had realised that something had to happen – soon. Nicky hadn't worried him one bit – he had seen the affectionate twinkle in Camille's eyes when she had smiled at him. Humphrey had started to get on his nerves quite badly, however, and it had annoyed and worried him to know that Camille had got pestered by him like that. Heaven only knew what Humphrey would come up with next – maybe he'd be more direct in his advances next time and make an indecent proposal to Camille… not because he'd want to harass her, of course, but because he was drunk or because he didn't know how to deal with the situation any longer. Of course, Camille would manage just fine in an awkward situation like that, but it would be better if she didn't get into a fix like that to begin with.

On the very next day, he had called Leblanc, asked a few questions and made a suggestion. Leblanc had been interested, promised that he'd discuss the affair with Dubois, and he'd call him back.

A couple of days later, Richard had received a phonecall… and he had been very satisfied when he had hung up after the conversation.


	6. Finale

Chapter 6

Finale

Richard's phone buzzed. He looked at the incoming text and chuckled. "Guess where I am," it said. "Well, I know where you are – but guess where I am…" he said to his phone.

It was lunchtime, and he decided he needed at least a short break. Since he wanted to go home early, he wouldn't take a regular lunch break today, but well, he would survive. He had survived other things, he thought a little grimly all of a sudden.

There was a small bistro a few steps down the street, and he could just get something to eat there and make himself a cup of tea in the kitchen opposite his office. Usually, he liked to sit in the bistro and watch people go by or read a little, and occasionally, he went for lunch with people from his department – the times when he had spent his lunchbreak in the office and read up old cases were definitely over. He had done that during his years in Croydon, and it had suited him then, but it was part of his past, not of his present life…

He put on his jacket and left the office to get a bite to eat. The girl in the bistro greeted him with a friendly smile and asked cheerfully "Same as usual, sir? Turkey or ham?" He said "Ham - and to go, please!" He still was very predictable with food, but at least he varied a little more nowadays. He handed her the money for his sandwich and stepped out again. The drizzle that had come down just a few hours ago had not returned, and the sun had decided to show up, so hopefully, the remainder of the day would be pleasant and nice.

He hoped she wouldn't feel offended or tricked… He was authorized to inform her on what her job over here included, but he wasn't going to be her immediate superior, though they would work together on the curriculum, and the tasks she'd have in the French team would be Leblanc's business.

He wondered idly how they'd get along. Leblanc already had to deal with a somewhat bossy (though very competent) superior, so maybe he wouldn't mind getting a somewhat bossy (also very competent) subordinate…

No matter how much Richard loved Camille – he was not blind to her shortcomings. She had been incredibly patient, loving and supportive towards him – and he still was in awe about the fact that she had flown around the world just to see him in rehab, as miserable and messed up as he had been there - struggling and trying to come to terms with his situation… and that she had not been put off, but come to visit again… and well, everything else… He blushed a little, thinking of what 'everything else' included…

But this had all happened because she… well, because she loved him, as unlikely as it sounded. He couldn't help but marvel at the depth and sincerity of their feelings for one another and the profound mutual understanding between them. In any event, that didn't make her any less short-tempered, impatient, rash or explosive. However, she was also loyal, resourceful, compassionate and genuinely interested in her work and the people around her, so he felt that Leblanc had made a pretty good catch with her… He seemed fairly lenient, anyway, so maybe it had just been him – Richard – who had initially had issues with Camille's temperament. And with Leblanc she could rant in her mother tongue – that would make it so much easier for everyone. Well, maybe not for Leblanc, but that remained to be seen…

It had been a good idea not to pick her up in person, but send Shaw instead. Not only because her flight had arrived at an ungodly hour, but also because he wanted to surprise her, plus the whole thing required an official touch. It would have appeared strange if he had gone to the airport himself to pick her up. Gossip would have come up, and he wanted to avoid that. People would find out soon enough about their personal connection. Although they certainly would act professionally – no holding hands and kissing in the hallways… - but it would be next to impossible to completely hide their feelings.

Of course, when he had spoken to Potter, he had mentioned that Sergeant Bordey had been his partner on Saint Marie, and he had also said that they were friends and had kept in touch after he had had to leave the island. What Potter had made of this… neither did he know, nor did he care. He hadn't wanted to give away too much – but well, that man had eyes to see, and he'd find out eventually that Richard's eagerness to have Camille in the international team was not only based on professional motives and reasons.

But: She'd been hired by the French, not by the Met. That was important because that way he was out of her report line – officially, at least. Of course, there'd be cooperation, and they'd have to attend meetings together and everything, but she would not be his subordinate, they'd be part of different organisations, and there wouldn't be any issues in regard to the non-fraternisation rules. The Commissioner on Saint Marie was perhaps tolerant about them, but the Met here in London was a different thing, so it was definitely better to be on the safe side.

He returned to the building and entered it through the side entrance. The security officer looked up when he approached him. "Sir?" he asked politely. Richard put on his most complaisant face. "Could you please do me a favour and give me a quick ring when Officer Shaw enters the house? You know him, don't you?" The officer nodded. Richard continued "He should be back within the next hour or so… Oh, and… it's DCI Poole, Crime Academy, International Department, you know… And… thank you!" The man in the glass cubicle nodded again and replied "No problem, sir." Richard thanked him once again and went back to his office. He just wanted to be prepared…

Not so long after he had finished his sandwich, his phone rang, and the security officer told him that Shaw and a lady had just entered the house and moved on, heading to the lifts. Richard smiled as he said "thank you" and hung up. Then he shook his head about his own behaviour… Good grief, that security officer had heard him say "thank you" quite a lot… no wonder that some people said behind what they thought were closed doors that he was OCD… He knew well enough that he was regarded as 'eccentric' by a lot of people, but Richard was beyond caring about what others might think of him at this point.

He got up from his chair a little nervously, looked around his office to check if everything looked tidy, briefly straightened out his silver pencil (he had two now – one was in his pocket, together with his notebook), the ruler and the fountain pen on his desk (again – for the third time or so) - and then began to pace up and down. Then, he checked his appearance - his shoes were polished, his suit was spotless, his tie was straight.

"Oh well," he thought with a trace of self-deprecation as he caught himself brushing an invisible particle of dust off his lapel, "…might as well admit it – you are nervous!"

Then he heard steps in the hallway, along with the sound of wheels… the noise clearly came from a suitcase being pulled along the floor - approaching his office -the rolling of the mail cart sounded differently…

Quickly, he returned to his desk and sat down, turning away from the door and facing the windows behind his desk. He waited… there was a knock on the door, and he took a moment to breathe deeply before he answered with a brief "Come in".

The door opened, and Shaw's voice announced that he had brought Sergeant Bordey… So she was finally here… He felt the tension in the pit of his stomach and took another deep breath before he turned around and looked in her eyes.

It was admirable to see how she kept a straight face. There only was a tiny smile curving her lips and a gleam shining in her eyes – he was sure that Shaw couldn't see it. But he saw it, and he was relieved… it meant that she wasn't upset with him but rather enjoyed this little charade. He got up and approached her, extending his hand and acting very formally. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and kiss her – but well, Shaw was still in the room, waiting for further orders – or whatever. Couldn't he just make a graceful exit and leave him alone with Camille?

He managed to string together a few more or less coherent sentences, Camille turned around to thank the young sergeant, Shaw made a reply – and Richard wanted to scream when he saw that he still hadn't left the office. Instead he was staring at Camille, blushing madly! Richard coughed – and he finally got the hint and left. Hopefully he wouldn't skulk around in the hallway – but then again, who cared as long as he didn't come in again!

A split second after the door had closed behind Sergeant Shaw, Richard took her in his arms and kissed her – very thoroughly. Happily he felt how she pressed herself against him and responded to his kiss with considerable passion. He wanted to feel more of her, so his hands slid under her jacket, caressing her back and stroking her flanks, and he felt her breath quickening. Finally, he pulled back and took a closer look at her.

She had a new haircut – well, it wasn't really new, but it was shorter and reminded him of how she had worn her hair when he had first met her all those years ago. Her attire was elegant and professional – he had never seen her like that, but he quite liked it – and he would certainly get used to it… And he noticed that she had chosen similar colours like the ones he wore – that was a funny coincidence. He made a comment on her outfit – he just had to tell her how amazing she looked. And although he knew he should talk business now and leave her no longer in the dark in regard to the situation, he couldn't help it – he just had to kiss her again. She seemed quite happy, so he drew it out a little longer…

However… eventually he had to sit down with her to explain. They'd have time for more later on, after his parents' leaving… He had stripped the bed this morning, put on fresh sheets and stored a bottle of champagne in the fridge, so…

He started by giving her a rundown on how he had proceeded to bring her to London. Much to his relief, she didn't fall in a frenzy and have a go at him because he had acted behind her back – more or less, at least. He apologised for acting in a secretive way and explained his reasons, and she understood. Obviously, she was just glad that she had been given the opportunity to leave Saint Marie, do something new and interesting - and be together with him at the same time.

At least they could see each other regularly, she could stay with him – and when there were meetings in Paris, he could come to stay with her. She'd have her own flat in Paris, so – if she let him - that would be his home away from home (her smile at this remark was radiant, and he was tempted to kiss her again, but decided it would be better to finish his explanation, or they'd never get anywhere).

They would have a rhythm and a routine together, and if they felt like it, they could easily hop on the train and cross the channel to spend a weekend together. They'd both have their respective careers and schedules, and while it wouldn't always be easy, it would be much, much better than being on different continents. And they could make realistic plans for the future…

When he reached that point, he paused for a moment, trying not to think of the small velvet box that was hidden in a drawer of his nightstand, waiting for the right moment to come. It would perhaps be too early to ask her tonight – but they'd have a few days together, after all… so he wouldn't have to rush it. Now that she was here, he felt the panic subsiding – he hadn't even noticed how tense he had been ever since he had started to plot all this.

She actually laughed out loud when he described how he had approached Leblanc. "He had heard about you, mind you, and he was more than interested to have you in the team," he told her. "And Dubois also was happy to hear that you were considering leaving Saint Marie and returning to France." Camille nodded and said "I know her – superficially – and she's got a reputation, as you can imagine. She's one of the best. I haven't worked with her directly, but one of my friends was in her team years ago, and I only heard good things about her. I have met her in person a few times during meetings, too, and she always came across as competent and the epitome of integrity. I look forward to working with her… I'm sure I'll learn a lot. And Leblanc will be my immediate superior?"

He nodded and then asked a little hesitantly "So, what do you think, Camille – is this a good start?" She didn't give him a verbal answer, but since she moved over to sit on his lap, put her arms around him and kissed him, he figured it was okay.

After a while, they broke for air, and she looked at him with shining eyes. He smiled at her tenderly, happy because she was happy. With some effort, he found his keychain in the pocket of his trousers, took off the spare key to the house and gave it to her.

"Time for you to go home, darling. I have to stay here for a little longer, but I'm sure my parents will be more than happy to entertain you – they are waiting for you in our house."

She kissed him once again, got up and sashayed to her suitcase. He couldn't take his eyes off her – how had he managed for all those months without her being around?

As she opened the door, she looked back over her shoulder and shot him an enticing glance. "See you later, darling – and hurry!"

The door closed, and he smiled happily. He had been given a new life, and it was getting better and better…


End file.
